A City In The Sky
by the0voice0from0above
Summary: Dean is a wolf shifter with a dark heart, travelling from town to town selling Tear – a rare stone with magical properties which he has a talent for sniffing out and retrieving – when he comes across a wounded kingfisher shifter in the forest who turns out to be a prince, a member of the royal family from the city Halsayon, and in need of Dean's help in his effort to return home
1. Chapter 1

"Fifty."

"Thirty."

"Forty."

"Thirty-five."

Dean shook his head. "It's not leaving my sight for less than forty."

The shop owner's piggy eyes narrowed. He picked up the Tear again to feel the weight, his lips and tongue rolling a toffee around in his broad mouth, dry spit building in the corners. He looked a lot like a toad with his big drooping lips and sagging chin. The store itself didn't exactly help matters since it was decorated to look like the bottom of a pond: damp, cold, dark and ironic lily-pad-green wallpaper.

As much as Dean hated to linger in back alley stores it was his only viable option when it came to selling Tear. If he went anywhere legitimate they would ask too many questions, questions that he didn't have answers to.

"Forty then."

"Deal," said Dean. It was a loss, he probably could have sold it for sixty in the next town, but he was running low on money so he didn't have much of a choice.

The man grunted his assent and slapped a note on the counter. As he reached to take the small, glowing sphere, Dean grabbed his wrist, halting him. "Wait a second. What's this?" he said, nodding to the slip of paper.

The shop owner tried to snake his hand out of Dean's iron grip, but it was no use.

The wolf inside Dean growled low and menacing and scratched at his mind to be set free. Twelve years experience sharing his body with a wolf counted for something though and he was able to force the urge to shift back down.

"A forty G-note," insisted the shop owner. The 'G' stood for gold; a memento from a time when solid gold coins were used for money instead of pieces of paper with royal seals. There were smaller notes too with less value. 'S' and 'B', standing for silver and bronze, for example, though they weren't something Dean dealt with. It was gold or nothing for him.

"I don't see the King's face on it," said Dean squeezing the man's wrist now and stabbing a finger at the note, at the illustrative face of a young man encompassed by an elegant motif. "Is this fake?"

"No! It's real, I swear," replied the shop owner, a touch of desperation entering his voice. Dean was barely using one tenth of his true potential, yet it was enough of a power display to put a shadow of fear across the man's broad face. "It's the Prince. Ask anyone! Prince Castiel! New notes were made to celebrate his eighteenth birthday."

Staring unblinking into the shop owner's small grey eyes, Dean sniffed the air lightly and, finding no trace of deception, decided he was telling the truth. "Pleasure doing business with you," murmured Dean, dropping his arm and snatching the note off the beaten counter.

...

With his new found wealth he picked up some supplies, splashing out on chocolate and even investing in a new blade. On the rare occasion that he did over spend, it was usually on something long lasting and useful like a weapon, a satchel or boots. He had needed a new sword for awhile. As for the chocolate he figured forgetting what sugar tasted like justified buying a small bar.

Sheltered under the shadow of a tree in the bustling main square, Dean sucked on a piece of chocolate while he unveiled his brand new sabre: a gently curved steel, almost white, blade with an intricate kingfisher engraving at its base and a blood red hilt. The weapon had stood out against the backdrop of the shop display, drawing him to it like a moth to a flame.

The curved blade was deadly – difficult to use if you didn't know what you were doing – with a razor sharp edge. He had already sliced his finger open just by inadvertently grazing the end of it.

To his left the central clock stumbled through its midday tune, and he knew it was time to go.

He sheathed the sword and strapped it to his back with the rest of his things.

He veered off the main road on his way out of town, using one of the many indirect routes through an open field to the next populated area. Sure, the main roads were straighter and therefore quicker and safer, but he was more likely to scent Tear out in the wilderness as opposed to paths with a lot of foot traffic and dozens of different scents to mask the stone.

The air was cool despite the sunshine. It bit Dean's cheeks in the kind of refreshing way that he liked especially on days when his wolf was close to the surface, and his body temperature was running too high. Like today.

Ever since his encounter with the shop keeper he had been on edge. Although he knew it was probably because he hadn't shifted for awhile, he still didn't change. In new towns his wolf would scratch at his mind to check out the area, run the border of the town and satisfy his inner animal instincts, but sometimes if the place was too populated he would quench the urge. He didn't want the questions that usually followed someone witnessing his transformation.

The waist high grass thinned as he moved into a cool wooded area absent of sunshine.

Dean inhaled deeply; fresh smells of moss, crisp grass, bark and the wonderful earthy scent of the woods soothed his insides and calmed his strung out nerves.

Silently he made his way through the trees, keeping a nose out for Tear and an eye out for unwanted company. The trail was rarely used, but that didn't mean he was going to travel along it uninterrupted. Trouble had a tendency of finding Dean no matter how deeply he was hidden or how far he ran.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, leaves rustled and a bright blue bird fell from the branches above him, landing with a _thump _on the leaf softened ground a few feet away.

Dean paused, hand on his sabre. He had seen too many apparently harmless things attempt to rip his throat out to be anything less than cautious.

When the bird didn't move he edged closer and noticed, with surprise, it was a kingfisher.

Kingfisher shifters were royalty. If not a direct descendant then related to the royal family in some way. This one seemed quite important. The colours in its beautiful blue and orange feathers were impressive and bright and the size – a good ten times bigger than an average kingfisher – suggested power.

The bird's chest was lifting and falling rapidly and its eyes were clamped shut as though it was in pain.

Dean had seen it before. It was a 'shift lock' or, if he was going to be scientific about it, a 'trauma induced transmutation lock'. It happened whenever a shifter injured themselves severely enough to put them into shock. Since the body did its best healing while human, natural instincts would try to force the change but the mind wouldn't allow it, causing the shifter's body to lock up.

Dean was no hero. If it had been anyone else he probably would have continued on his way. But the shifter was _royalty_ and that meant _money_ so he sat down beside the bird and stroked a finger across its gloriously soft chest. The bird's eyes snapped open and they met Dean's steady gaze.

"Calm down, you're in a shift lock," said Dean quietly. "You just need to relax. Breathe." When the kingfisher's breathing didn't change, he added. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe. Calm down."

The bird's chest hitched, paused, and gradually began to slow.

"That's it... easy. You're okay. You're safe."

Those large black, oil drop eyes never left Dean's. As if his gaze was a lifeline.

He felt a strange tug deep in his gut, something he hadn't felt in a long time: the feeling of being relied on, of being needed.

His wolf relished it. Too long had he suppressed his natural protective pack urges.

Dean beat the feeling to dust and concentrated on the kingfisher. He was pleased when it finally started to shimmer, its glossy blue feathers melting away, its plump body elongating, stretching out into the fluid frame of a human. Or more specifically, a young man with brown-black hair, shockingly blue eyes, creamy skin and pink lips.

Again Dean's stomach squirmed but for an entirely different reason this time and it wasn't just Dean who was affected. His wolf's ears pricked and he had to fight back the urge to lean in and inhale the man's scent.

Dean made sure his face didn't betray anything when he said, "Thought you'd never get there."

The man, teenager really, blinked and licked his lips, shuffling in the leaves until he was sitting upright. "I... thank you," whispered the shifter.

It was then that Dean recognised his face from the forty G-note he'd been given earlier.

"So, you're Prince Castiel, huh?" said Dean, rising to his feet and pushing his hands into his pockets.

The Prince stood too. He brushed the dirt from his hands and the blue and grey tern – a simple piece of material designed to change form with the body to any size and shape – wrapped around his waist. "Yes, I am," he said in a voice deeper than Dean had expected, "and thank you again for helping me."

Dean shrugged. "No problem. Don't suppose you've got a reward stashed under that skirt of yours?" He hadn't meant it to be sexual or even predatory, maybe it was his inner wolf morphing what supposed to be a casual look into something more, but when his eyes fell from the Prince's face, down his smooth chest and slender waist to his tern, Castiel blushed deeply as though Dean had groped him.

His wolf liked it. _Loved _it.

"N-no, I was attacked and –"

"Oh," said Dean carelessly, clicking his tongue. His wolf was much too interested in the Prince and Dean was finding it hard to stay human; the beast was pacing back and forth, pushing for Dean to transform so he could breathe in Castiel's scent and satisfy his animal side as much as his human.

It wasn't the first time his instincts had urged him to find a friend, a mate or a new member of his pack. His wolf was naturally social and needed a pack. It needed someone to protect, to socialise with, but Dean was alone now. He had decided that a long time ago, and his decision wasn't about to change (even if his wolf seemed to be putting up a much greater fight than he was used to).

"See you around then," said Dean, forcing himself to walk away and throwing a salute over his shoulder. His wolf fought so hard to stay that leaving was almost painful.

"Wait!" called the Prince. "You can't leave. Please, you have to help me. I need to get back to Halsayon and –"

"Not my problem," interrupted Dean.

Castiel gaped. "But I'll never be able to return home alone! What if I'm attacked again?"

"Again... not my problem."

"You're just going to leave me?"

"I think you're missing the whole 'this is not my shit to deal with' thing," said Dean. "I got you out of a shift lock what more do you want?"

"Help," insisted Castiel. "I need help. Please, I'm begging you."

"Do I look like someone who helps grandmas cross the street?" said Dean, walking away now. "I'm no do-gooder."

"Wait! Please!"

It took effort to ignore the Prince; his wolf was roaring with anger, the urge to protect splintering his will power like a branch holding too much weight.

"I'll pay you!"

_That _caught his attention. "How much?"

"Fifty G-notes."

Dean's answering laugh was a bark. "Seriously? Fifty G-notes? I can make that in a day."

The young Prince's eyebrows crinkled adorably and Dean's inner wolf whined. "Sixty," offered Castiel.

"I'll do it for a thousand," said Dean, crossing his arms.

"A thousand?! I can't possibly -"

"Hey, I'm not the one who's lost."

The Prince bit his lip; Dean had to look away. "I can pay you six hundred."

"Seven hundred and you've got a deal."

With apparent resignation Castiel relented. "Okay," he said. "Okay, seven hundred G-notes."

Unknown to Castiel, Dean was already regretting the deal. His wolf, on the other hand, was rejoicing at the prospect of protecting the Prince.


	2. Chapter 2

Prince Castiel was feeling indignant. His brooding rescuer had made no attempt to slow down the inhuman pace he insisted on setting despite knowing Castiel was in pain. He was sore, aching and shaken from the attempt on his life. Worse still, the stones which littered every inch of the main road were cutting into his bare feet. Specks of blood smeared onto the pale rocks with his every step.

He gasped when a particularly sharp lump of gravel sliced through the arch of his foot. It was wedged in deep and tears pricked Castiel's eyes as he pulled it out.

"Why don't you just shift?"

Castiel looked up. The man had stopped walking and was regarding him with a passive face.

"Because my ribs haven't fully healed and as a kingfisher I'll be easily noticeable," explained Castiel.

"Isn't that what you want? Hasn't Daddysent out a search party?"

Castiel ignored his sarcastic tone because he wasn't entirely sure how to deal with it. As pretentious as he knew it sounded, he was used to his company being impeccably polite. "Yes, that's probably true, but you don't understand. There's a price on my head. If The Seven discover where I am, they'll send someone to –"

"The Seven?"

"Yes."

The man chuckled, shaking his head like Castiel had said something hilarious.

"What's so funny?" asked the Prince.

"Let me get this straight. You want to get from here to Halsayon withoutbeing seen?"

"Well. . .yes if that's possible."

"It isn't. But we'll come back to that. And you're worried that if someone _does _recognise you, The Seven will know where you are?"

"I suppose -"

"Because they've put a price on your head?"

Castiel nodded.

Fractionally, the man's eyes narrowed. "How much?"

The amount was on the tip of Castiel's tongue when something occurred to him. Money was obviously important to this man, and the reward The Seven were offering every low life, thief and black market dealer on the continent to bring Castiel to them alive was a hundred thousand G-notes; a great deal more than the seven hundred he was planning on paying his rescuer.

Considering Castiel had only just met him, he had already given him a lot of faith, faith he probably didn't deserve. Trusting him with anything else would be a mistake. He couldn't risk it.

"I'm not going to cash you in," said his rescuer with an eye roll.

"Why not?"

A flicker of something crossed the man's face then he frowned. Had Castiel just offended him?

"Because we have a deal," he said simply, and, without another word, he unbuttoned the canvas sheath containing a long machete at his thigh and began hacking into the thick foliage of the forest running alongside the road. "This way," he commanded when Castiel didn't immediately follow.

Once again, Castiel was left trailing behind him in silence, but this time he didn't mind so much. The woodland floor was much softer on his feet, and there was no hardship in watching the shift of muscle under the tight clothing of his rescuer's moss green t-shirt.

There was no doubt the man was attractive, if a little lacking in etiquette and normal social niceties. At around the age of twenty four or five, he was big, bigger than Castiel in height and in muscle mass though that wasn't a feat.

The man's arms were tight bands of muscle. Not too much to be ungainly, but certainly enough to guarantee Castiel's eyes were drawn to them.

The man's wide, experienced hands, coarse from hard labour, were perfectly adept to wielding a weapon, if the way he was swinging the machete into overhanging branches was anything to go by. Dirty blonde made up his head of hair and a very attractive face finished off his overall beauty.

He was certainly a sight for sore eyes, Castiel couldn't deny that. There was a shadow though, a permanent black cloud suspended over a beautiful landscape, that marred it.

Being a kingfisher shifter, Castiel was able to see auras, and this man's aura was black. Blacker than anything he had ever laid eyes on before. It was the type of darkness light didn't just avoid but was sucked into. A jet black. Impenetrable and unyielding.

An aura was essentially the condition of the soul. To get an aura as dark as this man's, one would have to be carrying an awful lot of pain and anguish, enough to darken the core.

The worst part about it was that the colour of a person's aura didn't change overnight; it took time, which meant his rescuer had been suffering for months if not years.

Castiel's heart ached knowing that, although he was a stranger, the man had lived, and was still living, with so much pain. He craved to know what had happened that had caused such irreparable damage, but knew asking would only get a figurative door slammed in his face.

"What's your name?" asked Castiel, attempting to pick up a little conversation.

"Dean."

"Do you live around here?"

"No."

"How come you're in town?"

"Business."

"What kind of business?" Castiel, who had been watching his feet, hadn't realised the man had stopped and walked right into him. He looked up at his rescuer.

"None of your business. That's what kind."

Castiel's brows drew together. He had never spent time with anyone with such a bad attitude. Granted, the man, Dean, had his own problems and Castiel could understand he was a burden, but it was almost as though he was going out of his way to be difficult.

The Prince decided to try a different tact. "Have you heard of The Seven?"

"The Seven Deadly Sins? Who hasn't? Apart from having the most douchey name I've ever heard, they've got followers all over the country."

"And they're gaining more," said Castiel, growing increasingly out of breath.

Despite having to chop down half the forest, Dean's stride was still double Castiel's.

"Could we slow down, please?" he panted and tripped head first over a stray branch. Before he even reached the floor, however, he was caught by his upper arms and hauled upright as if he was made of nothing.

Castiel peeked up. The sudden close proximity was surprisingly overwhelming. Waves of heatrolled off Dean. It burned through his hands scorching Castiel's skin.

He didn't think it was possible for a body to hold such a high temperature and had to wonder if Dean was coming down with something.

Their eyes locked. There was something about him, his body language, his face, his gaze – Castiel didn't know what - that had a way of being predatory. He was staring at Castiel directly, eyes fixed and unblinking in a perfect impression of a carnivore spying prey. The sight made Castiel's tummy leap. It was both scary and thrilling to be under his scrutiny, a combination he hadn't felt with anyone else before.

"You alright?" said Dean after a beat.

Castiel released an unsteady breath, nerves twisting in his stomach. Swallowing hard, he nodded.

Dean let go then stepped back. "There's a trail just up here."

Castiel was relieved to see that he was right, because his sudden light headedness partnered with dense forest terrain was going to be the death of him.

"How far is it to the next town?"

Dean opened his mouth as if he was about to respond, but stopped and closed it again, inhaling deeply. His head snapped to the right, and he abruptly deviated off path.

"Dean?" Castiel stumbled after him through the trees.

He followed until the thick vegetation thinned and parted to reveal a small pool with water so curiously blue that it mustn't have been natural. The gritty shore had a reddish orange tinge like rust, and the liquid beyond it was calm enough to reflect its surroundings in a mirror image.

"What is this place?" Castiel joined Dean at the water's edge. He looked down at the silent liquid feeling a strange sense of foreboding. There was something. . ._wrong _with it_. _"Maybe we should go."

Dean didn't reply. He stared at the water, their reflections looking back at them. It was as if they were gazing into a portal to another dimension or a parallel universe.

Dean dropped his satchel along with his weapons and began untying his boots.

"You're not going in there are you?" said Castiel in astonishment.

"Stay here."

"But-"

Dean straightened up, pulling his t-shirt over his head.

Castiel's mouth snapped closed.

"Just stay here. Alright?" said Dean. "I'll be back in a minute." He waited until Castiel nodded before striding into the pool.

Even if Castiel wanted to pretend he wasn't shamelessly gawping at Dean's body, he wouldn't have been able to tear his gaze away. Muscles clearly defined, dipping and curving in all the right places, sandy nipples hard in the cool air, even a tattoo...

A tattoo?

"Don't move," Dean reminded him, apparently oblivious to Castiel's ogling, and dived into the impossibly blue water.

At the back of Castiel's mind, hidden amongst the filing cabinets of princely duties and useless knowledge fed to him at an early age, an old memory niggled.

Had he seen Dean's tattoo before? He was sure he had.

The boldness and simplicity of its design reminded Castiel of some of the notable family crests he had been made to memorise back in Halsayon. It hadn't been on any of Castiel's lists, but he had seen it somewhere before in a book. If only he had been able to get a clear look at the tattoo just to be certain.

Of course it could have simply been a random pattern, a miscellaneous design Dean had chosen, but he didn't strike Castiel as someone who would graffiti his body unless it held some significance.

Moments later, Dean resurfaced clutching something in his hand. He waded back to the shore, panting. Water dripped off his hair and skin and glinted in the patches of sunshine cutting through the trees.

Although Dean wasn't making any real effort to conceal what he had just recovered, Castiel still had to strain to see it as he stuffed it into his satchel.

He caught a glimpse of a blood red gem and gasped. "That's _Tear_!"

Dean looked up at him from where he was crouched. He didn't appear angry or uncomfortable like most people found in possession of Tear would have been. If anything, he seemed bored. "Is this going to be a problem?"

The magical property of Tear had had mixed results, the extent of its power unclear.

Everyone knew the story of its source though. It was a tale told around campfires, under the stars, while washed in the orange glow of firelight and flickering shadows danced over their shoulders.

Azazel, an evil man, murderer of hundreds, torturer of thousands, with skulls decorating his castle and human hearts boiling in his kitchen was the only dragon shifter recorded in history. He was defeated by a man named Samuel Colt who met his own demise at the hands of Lilith, Azazel's wife. It was said that, having watched her husband's downfall, Lilith cried tears of blood and because her agony was so great, the tears crystallised into powerful red-black pearls.

Her tears could be found all over the world, but only by people who had spilt enough blood themselves to able to sniff them out.

It meant that Dean was a murderer, and not of one but of many.

Castiel suddenly found Dean's predatory stare less exciting and leaning more towards scary.

Dean's jaw tightened. He wiped the water from his face and finished tying his satchel. "You can back out of the deal. I don't care."

There was always going to be a risk in trusting a stranger. Castiel wasn't deluded. He knew that the chances of finding anyone willing to take him safely home, when home was miles away, for a mere seven hundred G-notes was unlikely. And even if it wasn't, the price on his head was too great to go looking for someone else.

Although Dean was a murderer, he seemed like a man of his word. He had promised to take Castiel home and Castiel believed him.

Dean didn't say anything as he slipped his t-shirt and boots back on and shouldered his bag. His green eyes met Castiel's. "If it makes you feel any better. . . I killed for a good reason."

Castiel's heart was beating fast. "O-okay," he breathed.

"Do you want to carry on?"

"Yes."

"Come on then."

For reasons the Prince couldn't fathom, it seemed only natural to trust Dean. His kingfisher and his body accepted his rescuer as someone safe.

...

Darkness was beginning to settle in. The sky peering through the gaps in the trees was a dusky blue with purple tinges near the horizon. The previously colourful forest was losing its vibrancy. Castiel wasn't necessarily afraid of the dark, but that didn't mean he was keen on walking through a forest he didn't know at night. "Can we find somewhere safe to rest?"

Dean's face lifted, and he quite noticeably sniffed the air. It only occurred to Castiel then that he didn't actually know what Dean shifted into. Castiel would bet the entire kingdom on him being a carnivore of some kind. "What is your animal?"

"A wolf. We can rest over there where it's more sheltered," he said and moved off the trail towards a large group of shrubs.

Castiel carefully climbed over a fallen tree while Dean watched him. "Can I see you shift?"

"No."

"Why not? You're going to have to shift in front of me at some point," reasoned Castiel.

Dean slung his satchel by the fallen tree and dropped down next to it. "Whatever," he muttered, leaning back and closing his eyes.

They were in a little circle of dry ground, padded by leaves and moss and protected by greenery. It was so sheltered, Castiel could easily pretend they were inside a tent and not out in the open. His kingfisher felt safe and so did he. Despite how sheltered they were though, it was still cold. "Should we build a fire?"

"Not if you want to get caught."

"But I'm cold."

"Then wake me up if you think you're going to die of hyperthermia."

Castiel grumbled to himself and sat down. "Why are you so unpleasant?" he mumbled, removing an audacious twig that was stabbing his butt cheek.

Dean laughed. "What's the matter? Too used to people kissing your ass?"

"No."

"Aww, and it's such a perky one too."

"You're an idiot."

"Oh, now that's just cruel."

A cold breeze nipped at Castiel's skin, and he shivered, wrapping his arms around his legs and sniffling.

At the sound of a sigh Castiel's gaze darted to Dean who was staring at him with eyes that glowed vaguely in the semidarkness. It was both unnerving and fascinating. The fact that he didn't blink at all made it creepier still. A small thrill wracked through Castiel's body along with a shudder from the nip of the night air.

Dean sat up and pulled his t-shirt off. "Wear that," he said, throwing it at Castiel.

The Prince plucked it off his head and smiled. "It's so _warm_," he exclaimed, quickly slipping it on.

"Mm," yawned Dean, crossing his arms over his well built chest. "I'm always hot."

And wasn't _that _the biggest understatement of the century.

Castiel lay on his side and curled up in the leaves. The smell of Dean engulfed him, and that, mixed with the lingering warmth, of Dean's body heat was probably the only thing that could have sent him off into such a deep sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean didn't know whether the sight of Castiel huddled in a ball wearing his t-shirt was ridiculous or adorable. The kid was a prince; with stacks of suits stitched by hand and drawers full of overpriced underwear waiting for him back home, Dean's shirt was probably the least expensive item of clothing he had ever worn. It was equivalent to Dean wearing a potato sack.

He had expected the prince to turn his nose up at it, especially since Dean had sweated through the shirt during their trek. But the only comment out of Castiel's mouth had been about his body heat.

An involuntary smile tugged at Dean's lips.

There were brambles stuck in Castiel's dark hair and he was snoring softly, blowing a leaf back and forth with every breath. It was still early, around six o'clock, so he doubted Castiel would wake up anytime soon. Princes had no need to rise early.

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair and tapped his foot. At the back of his mind his wolf paced.

The need to shift was becoming too much. Maybe he could change for an hour or two before Castiel woke? But the thought of having to explain exactly what he was to the prince made him hesitate.

Dean didn't expect to make it to Halsayon without Castiel finding out about his past, but the longer he could put off the inevitable the better. He didn't want questions, and he didn't do back stories. He knew Castiel wouldn't accept that though. He was stubborn. Part of the whole prince deal, Dean suspected. Still, Castiel wasn't as stuck up as Dean would have thought.

It was obvious Castiel had led a very sheltered life, too used to people waiting on him hand and foot, but he wasn't stuck up. His biggest down fall was his naivety. He had given Dean so much trust that it made both Dean and his wolf shudder at what might have happened if the prince had encountered anyone else and asked for help.

Castiel sighed and rolled over in his sleep, a soft, smooth hand lying by his face.

As Dean watched him slumber, a trill of voices nearby made his body tense. He turned round, crouching low to the ground, and peeked over the moulding deadfall. In his mind his wolf did the same.

Two men approached from the north. Dean's eyes narrowed and his lip pulled into a snarl. Roy and Walt: bounty hunters born without a moral compass and a brain cell between them.

Dean ducked down, out of sight. Not because he couldn't handle them, he could crush them if he wanted to, but because they had a habit of knocking a small town's death cenus to triple figures. They tended to do more damage to others through their own stupidity than anything well thought out. Despite that, he couldn't risk them seeing Castiel. He was valuable cargo and needed to be protected.

His stomach tightened. Internally, where his animal instincts were beginning to outweigh his human, his wolf demanded to be set free, to chase off the threat from the prince, _his _prince, _their _prince.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He could control it with effort.

A cool hand touched his arm, making him jump, drawing a growl from his chest, and the tenuous hold he had on his wolf cracked. Dean spun round, prepared to fight.

"It's me." Castiel's beautiful blue eyes were wide.

Dean relaxed but just a little. All of his focus was now on the slender hand wrapped around his forearm. The prince's skin looked creamy and delicious. Dean had the strong urge to lick it.

"Who are they?" asked Castiel.

Tensing up again, Dean replied, "Bounty hunters."

Castiel's soft fingers stroked his arm. Whether it was intentional or not it didn't matter; it felt so good Dean's breath caught in his throat.

So soft. So willing and vulnerable.

Gritting his teeth he tried to pull away but his companion held on.

"You're trembling," breathed Castiel. "Dean, you need to shift."

"I _know_," he hissed and snatched his arm back. "Do you seriously think I don't know that? Fuck! He's clawing at my god damn skull."

"Then shift."

"I _can't_," he growled, fixing Castiel with a look which for some reason brought colour to the prince's cheeks. "He's a protective son of a bitch. If I cut him loose he'll tear those guys apart."

"Your wolf is protective of. . . me?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't look so pleased. You've got the money. Obviously he'll want to protect you." He could tell Castiel didn't believe him though and it irritated the hell out of him. "Whatever you're thinking, no, all right? My wolf is kind of crazy. That's all."

"Crazy, how? Is he feral?"

"No. He's just. . ." Dean shook his head. "He's just hard to control sometimes. Sit back there. Be quiet. Trust me you don't want these guys to see you."

Castiel did as he was told. As soon as Dean switched his attention back to the hunters, however, they had disappeared.

"Shit."

Something cold and sharp pressed into the back of Dean's neck. "You got that right. Turn around."

With a sigh Dean did so, slowly, still hoping in vain that it was all a dream. Or a nightmare. He hadn't decided yet.

Castiel was squirming in Walt's arms, a knife pressed to his throat.

The wolf inside Dean roared in protest. Holding back was physically painful. The tendons in his balled fists were threatening to cut through the skin they were so close to the surface.

"Well isn't this cosy," said Roy.

Both hunters were grimy and dishevelled; the powerful stench of sweat and dirt saturated the clean forest air, turning Dean's stomach.

"It was," drawled Dean. "'til you dicks showed up." He rose to his feet, grimaced at the long sword pointed at his chest and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Farmer John finally let you go, Roy? How come? Didn't want to neck you for Thanksgiving?"

The sneer he gave Dean was comical. Roy was a cockerel shifter and Walt was a hog. A cock and a pig – true in both senses of the word. Two barnyard animals just aching to earn themselves a reputation and have their piece of the criminal pie.

"Think you're funny, Winchester?" grunted Roy.

"I think I'm adorable."

"This is the prince, huh?" Walt suddenly yanked Castiel's head back by his hair, exposing his pale throat. "Saw him on the posters in town. The king's looking for him, so it says."

"Yeah? Congratulations. You can read."

Walt ignored him. "But he's not the only one looking. The Seven want him bad and they're offering a hundred grand up for him. Dead or alive."

Dean's face must have betrayed something because Walt's lips stretched into what was supposed to be a smile. He tightened his grip in Castiel's short dark hair, putting his face close to the prince's cheek. Castiel's smooth, untouched skin, lay pressed in stark contrast to Walt's hairy jaw.

A whimper fell from Castiel and Dean's wolf growled low and threatening inside his mind. Outside, Dean had stopped blinking, he knew his eyes had turned wolf, and his teeth had sharpened. "Let him go."

"I don't think so." The hunter pushed the razor sharp blade into the Prince's neck. "We still owe you an ass kicking for Burma. Maybe we'll forget the reward and just slit the little bitch's throat, right here, just for you."

The world seemed to descend into an eerie silence as if all the animals, plants and even the wind were holding their breath. The tremors in Dean's body stopped. "Let him go now."

"Or what?"

Dean's gaze caught Castiel's frightened eyes. Walt dragged the blade a centimetre across the once flawless skin and a drop of blood appeared, grew fat then spilled over, sliding down Castiel's throat, leaving a thin red trail in its wake.

The smallest wince of pain from Castiel was all it took to bring the walls confining Dean's wolf crashing down.

There was no steady build and no warning.

His wolf roared; a long deafening sound that ricocheted off the surrounding trees like a bullet glancing off iron. The beast tore out of Dean, aiming straight for the throat.

* * *

The men holding his mate no longer had names. They didn't even have faces. They were just flesh and blood, something to rip apart with his teeth.

No one hurt his mate. No one.

In the midst of the slashing, the spray of blood and the clouding red veil of blinding violence, he heard screams then, "Dean, no! You're going to kill them!"

Something tugged at his scruff and the wolf whirled around, snarling. He paused when he saw it was his mate, his pack member, standing stock still and holding up his hands in a gesture, the wolf recognised, meant to quell.

"Dean, stop," said his mate. "You need to calm down." The human deliberately crouched to his knees. Submissive – the wolf liked it.

Snorting to expel the blood trapped in his nostrils, the wolf trotted closer and nuzzled his mate's hair and neck, something he had wanted to do for a long time. He smelled good. He sniffed and rubbed his cheek against him.

"Go, quickly, before he turns again."

He didn't know if it was directed at him and he didn't really care because he could feel his inner human urging him to shift, scratching at his mind relentlessly. It was distracting. He didn't want to shift. Not yet.

Tentative fingers pushed through his fur, bringing him back to the present. "You're beautiful," said his mate.

The wolf tilted his head, caught the human's blue eyes and was pleased when they lowered. He allowed his mate to fuss him, pushing back against the gentle hand and nosing at his neck. The attention was nice and something he had dearly missed.

But again his inner human pushed and pushed, he was too strong, so the wolf gave in finally and lay down to shift.

* * *

Dean felt the wolf's power on his mind wane and had never been so relieved to have full control again. When he came back to himself, standing up and stretching, Castiel was sitting on the ground, still in the oversized t-shirt and staring up at Dean with careful eyes. The two hunters were gone.

"Do you want to tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing?" demanded Dean. He was completely bare-ass naked and since Castiel was sitting down he was near enough eye level with his groin. He couldn't blame him for looking, but it didn't help to subdue Dean's temper. "Stop looking at my dick!"

Castiel flinched and wrapped his arms around his legs looking incredibly small. "I didn't want you to kill them," he said, staring at the floor.

"And that's worth risking your life?"

"Your wolf wouldn't have harmed me."

"What the hell do you know?" he said despite Castiel being right. Dean's wolf would never hurt him because, to Dean's dismay, his wolf saw the prince as its _mate_.If Dean had known that it would attach itself to Castiel so easily he never would have agreed to protect him.

Still not meeting Dean's eyes, Castiel scratched at the dried mud on his knee. "Why didn't you tell me you were a Winchester wolf?"

A lump the size of a house brick rose in Dean's throat. He turned away and searched in his, now bloodied, satchel for some fresh clothes.

"Dean?"

"Don't do that," he said, roughly tugging on a t-shirt and brown combats.

"Do what?"

"Pity me," replied Dean and slung his bag over his shoulder, stuffing his feet into his boots.

"I'm not –"

Dean spun around and glared at him. "Don't bullshit me. I can see it in your eyes because I've seen it a thousand times before. Pity. I'm _sick _of it. I don't need it," he spat. "I don't need a fucking momma's boy who's been living a sweet-ass life in some fancy palace giving me _pity_." There were tears building in Castiel's eyes but still Dean ploughed on, unable to control the force of emotion shooting out of him. "Don't act like you care because you don't care. You're notmy friend, you're not my family, you're not my acquaintance, hell, you're not even a stranger. You're nothing to me."

And with that, he kicked the solid weight of a fallen tree out his path as easily as if it was a branch one hundredth of its size and marched away.

* * *

It took him awhile to calm down but once he did he realised how cruel he had been. He couldn't take back what had been said and if he could he would but the damage was done now and Castiel was probably long gone. The problem was, Dean and his wolf found so much comfort in Castiel that it scared him. He couldn't bear the thought of relying on someone again, and having them rely on him. And yet, at the same time, he craved it. He wanted to have someone to protect and someone to share his day to day life with because that's who he was. It was built into him. Ingrained.

He slumped onto a broken boulder, rubbing his face. What was he supposed to do? Search for Castiel? Carry on and allow himself to wallow in the comfort Castiel brought?

A quick gust of wind brushed through his hair then a warm weight settled on his knee. Dean opened his eyes, blinking down at the kingfisher perched there. It was looking up at Dean curiously, holding a pretty blue flower in its beak.

Dean held out his hand and the bird dropped it into his palm.

A purple Hyacinth – a symbol of sorrow.

Sighing, Dean stroked the kingfisher's bright plumage. "I'm sorry too."


	4. Chapter 4

The kingfisher swooped low, skirting the leafy ground before twirling in the air and rocketing up above the treetops. He could feel Castiel's excitement and it spurred on his own, sending adrenaline flying through his veins with all the speed of his beating wings.

Nothing compared to the freedom that wings provided. At the back of his mind, Castiel laughed, and the kingfisher whistled with glee as he dove sharply, barely missing Dean's head in the process.

"Don't come crying when you crash into a tree," said the man.

To prove a point, the kingfisher gained speed twisting out of the way of a trunk at the last second. A spectacular dodge even if he did say so himself. How could Dean doubt his ability to fly? What a ludicrous notion. He had been flying since he was born which was much longer than Dean had been wielding his Neanderthal knife.

He didn't particularly like the man. Not since he had upset Castiel. The kingfisher conceded that Dean's soul was attractive and it drew him in like no other ever had despite it being tarnished with darkness, anger and pain. A little too much negative emotion for the kingfisher's liking but underneath that was something _good_, something pure and astonishingly loving and it was _that _which attracted the kingfisher and labelled Dean as a potential soul mate.

Late in the afternoon, when the trees began to thin and the edge of the forest was in sight, the bird flew beside Dean and perched on his shoulder.

Together they exited the confines of the woods and found themselves at the foot of a long, rolling field. In the distance beyond its grassy perimeter was a small, old fashioned town with cobbled streets and horse drawn carriages. Quite a contrast to Halsayon.

"You'll have to hide in my bag," said Dean. "Whether you're human or a chicken – "

The kingfisher pecked his ear indignantly.

"Everyone'll know who you are," he finished, opening the satchel and presenting its darkened depths to the bird who peered into it. Bits of dried meat were glued to the sides, there was a smell of mould and sweat and an unsheathed knife was sticking upright, angled towards the opening. The kingfisher gave Dean a dubious look earning him a sigh.

"Just get in."

Did he truly expect the kingfisher to simply hop into a fabric bag which, by the way, probably held more dirt than the forest they had just walked through? Did he have any idea how long it took to clean his feathers?

"Get in," insisted Dean and when the bird refused he added, "Princess, I know you can hear me. Tell him to get in the bag or get shot by a bounty hunter."

Unfortunately, Castiel agreed with the man and prodded him to comply. So with entirely warranted reluctance he dropped into the satchel, and was unceremoniously slung over the man's back.

It was difficult to stand up right with the way the bag was bouncing around, though that might have had something to do with Dean's walk. Dean had a heavy gait. He had the walk and appearance of a man who carried the world on his shoulders. If the kingfisher hadn't seen him shift into a wolf, he would have assumed Dean's animal was a rhino or an elephant or something equally as heavy.

A slight tear in the stitching of the bag allowed the kingfisher to peer outside which he was grateful; he was wedged between a t-shirt and a packet of greasy food and the smell was making him queasy.

Once they reached the town centre, however, the kingfisher's disgust was lost to his curiosity.

The market was a feast for the senses, a cacophony of noises including chickens clucking, humans talking, carriages bumping over uneven cobble stones, their wheels creaking under the strain of their load, and a smorgasbord of scents: fish, raw meat, vegetables, fruit and smoke.

Warmth washed through the gaps in the bag when Dean walked into a shop of some kind.

"Good afternoon!" said a cheery female voice. "Do you need a room?"

"Yes. Single," replied Dean. "With a bath."

"Certainly, sir. Just for tonight is it?" There was a brief second of silence in which Dean must have nodded because she then said, "That'll be fifty B-notes. . . Thank you, that's perfect. And. . . here's your key! That's room seven, just upstairs, and it'll be the second to last door on the right."

It was quiet for a long while except for Dean's solid footsteps on the stairs. A door opened, closed, a lock slid into place, the satchel was dropped onto something soft and light poured in. "C'mon, move your ass. It's safe now," said Dean.

The kingfisher hopped out and fluttered onto the bed. At Castiel's polite request, he relinquished his hold and allowed his body to transform back into a human.

* * *

Castiel stretched languidly. His tern (or as Dean had referred to it, his skirt) was securely in place though it was a covered in dirt and needed a wash.

They were in a quaint room with garish flowery wallpaper, beige curtains, a neat single bed and a tin bath complete with a screen. It was primitive at best. The whole building was practically an antique, but Castiel found he quite liked it. It was. . .cosy.

Over by the square window, Dean was emptying the contents of his satchel and setting them out on the dresser: food, clothes, weapons and the mysterious tear which he pocketed.

The prince gazed at his face, at his handsome face perpetually tarnished with a frown. Now he knew why.

The Winchesters had once been a great family of powerful wolf shifters. Castiel had recognised the tattoo on Dean's chest because the Winchester wolves had served the royal family as part of the Guard.

They were good, honest people who never did anyone any harm. Perhaps a little overprotective when it came to family, strong willed and short tempered, but they weren't _bad. _They certainly didn't deserve to be exterminated like vermin and have their homes burned down.

Eight years ago on November 2nd the Winchester pack was wiped out. All except for Dean. No one knew why or how it happened, and no one was brought to justice.

Castiel had heard the guards sometimes, talking about the Winchesters. How great they were, how strong and brave. He never thought he would be sitting in the same room as one.

Dean had told Castiel not to pity him. He _had _pitied him, but he had also admired him. Dean was a survivor. Although his heart was dark, and the choices he had made following his family's death had been poor, he was a Winchester wolf. He just needed to remember what that meant.

"You've got a habit of staring at me," came Dean's deep voice, cutting through his thoughts like a knife through butter.

Castiel's stomach jolted.

Dean turned to look at him. "It's starting to get annoying."

"I'm sorry," said Castiel as his cheeks burned.

Dean didn't say anything. He finished unpacking his bag, its contents strewn over the dresser, and dropped it in the chair parked under the window.

"Are we staying here tonight?" asked Castiel, sitting cross legged in the middle of the bed.

"_You_ are. I'm going back to the woods. Let my wolf loose for the night."

"But I can't stay here alone!"

"It's a quiet town. You'll be fine."

Plucking at the thread of his tern, Castiel's eyebrows drew together. "What if someone finds me?" He was whining, he could feel it; it was the spoilt prince coming out of him.

The look on Dean's face made it clear he wasn't impressed either. "Like who? No one knows you're here and have you seen this place? It's like senior central. We're more likely to bump into the Saint Nicholas than a bounty hunter."

Castiel resisted the impulse to use any words that might be construed as demanding or childish—he doubted Dean would appreciate that. He took a deep breath. "I don't feel confident sleeping here alone. I don't think I could _sleep_ here alone. I know it's unlikely someone will find me but there's still a chance that they will and I want—I'd _prefer_ it if you would stay. Here." He licked his lips. "With me."

Dean glowered, his jaw twitching.

Pouncing on the fact that his protector hadn't immediately shot him down in flames, Castiel added, "Please."

And to his absolute amazement, Dean sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "_Fine _but you're looking after my wolf tomorrow, okay?"

The Prince nodded quickly. "I will, I promise."

"Good." Without warning Dean removed his t-shirt and switched it for another one.

Castiel stared, unable to turn away, at the man's hypnotising body. His eyes moved lower to the area between Dean's legs and it didn't help that he knew_ exactly _what was under his clothes.

When he looked up, his breath caught—Dean was staring at him. He had obviously noticed the attention he was getting from the prince yet there were no questions in his eyes or even mockery. It was a perfect poker face and impossible to guess what he was thinking.

Cheeks flooding with heat, Castiel waited for Dean to say something or look away but he did neither, and it sent Castiel's heart hammering in his ribcage.

Dean wasn't blinking. His green eyes were fixed on Castiel. It had never been clearer that Dean shared his soul with a wolf.

The longer Dean held his gaze the harder it was for Castiel to lower his own.

The prince didn't know if he was imagining it or if Dean's irises were actually glowing brighter than their usual green-gold shimmer. He was so incredibly attractive.

Warmth pooled low. It partnered with an ache that he felt not just in his groin but all over. Sudden mental images of kissing Dean blossomed in his mind, unfurling like a flower.

Dean's eyes slid shut and he lifted his chin, inhaling deeply.

It took Castiel a moment to understand what he was doing. But when the realisation hit, it sent a bolt of heat through him—Dean could smell Castiel's arousal.

Loud, booming laughter just outside the door snapped them both out of their daze. Castiel folded his hands in his lap to hide his very obvious excitement and counted the flowers on the wallpaper.

"I'm going out," said Dean, heading to the door. "I'll bring hot food when I come back."

He was gone before Castiel could even respond.

* * *

The prince had had many baths and showers at the palace. He had been washed by others and by himself. Soaps smelling of lavender had lathed his skin and rosemary scented oils had smoothed the following dryness. He had had all types of ceremonial washings and dipping, royal swims and annual fishing.

There was something to be said, however, for the sweet simplicity of a tub full of steaming hot water and nothing else. For one thing, he was alone.

He let his arms float in the clear water, weightless. It curled around his chin as he sank deeper and the feel of the liquid slipping over his lips made him shiver.

Beside his thighs, his thumbs brushed the soft hairs there. Castiel's eyes slipped closed. His right hand moved over his leg to his erection which he began to pull slowly, imagining it was Dean's coarse palm doing the work.

Picturing his protector gave him a flash of embarrassment, but as his cock grew harder and he fell further into his imagination, it faded it away.

He came to the thought of Dean spilling lewd words in his ear while he held Castiel down and fucked him.

Almost immediately after the glow of climaxing, Castiel felt guilty and resolved not to think about him in that way again. If he could help it. Dean might have been extremely handsome, but not only was he twenty-five, a whole eight years older than Castiel, he was his guardian not a figment of Castiel's perverted imagination. Dean would be disgusted that he was being thought of like that.

One by one the lights in the tiny village petered out until all that remained lit under the glow of the moon was the ground floor of a pub across the street.

Castiel sat by the open window, his chin resting in his palm while he breathed in the night air and listened to the mundane chatter of inebriated pub patrons making their way home.

"Sam Winchester! Yes, that's right."

Castiel inhaled sharply.

"But I thought all the Winchesters were killed?"

He leaned closer to the open window, as much as he dared without being seen, and spotted three men and a woman huddled under the entrance to the Thorny Rose pub. Barely breathing, he strained to listen to their conversation over the pounding of his heart.

"Well, apparently not."

"He's alive all right. I saw him with my own eyes."

"Where?"

"In Stone. He's searching for his brother, what was his name? Daniel?"

"Donald. It's definitely Donald."

"No it isn't! It's _Dean!_" exclaimed the drunken woman who was swaying dangerously. She had to use the wall beside her for support.

"Can you believe it though? Sam Winchester is alive. He survived!"

"Does that mean the King will make him a member of the Royal Guard again?"

"Not likely," answered one of the men. "He hasn't been trained."

"Does anyone know where the other Winchester is?"

"Daniel?"

"Dean!" yelled the woman.

"The last I heard he was in Burma."

"Awful lot of juicy gossip this week!"

"I know! First the Prince goes missing and then Sam Winchester comes back from the dead. Oh! Did you hear about Dawn's baby?"

Castiel slid off the chair and dropped to the carpeted floor. Dean's brother was alive. And he was in Stone. More than fifty miles in the opposite direction. If Dean discovered that his brother had survived he would, without a shadow of a doubt, leave Castiel and go searching for Sam.

The right thing, the moral thing to do would be to tell Dean immediately regardless of the consequences but Castiel, no matter how big a betrayal he knew it was, couldn't lose Dean. Not yet. He would never survive on his own. He desperately needed protection. Would it be so despicable to withhold the information just for now? Sam would still be waiting when it was all over and Dean would be seven hundred G-notes up. Surely that wasn't such a bad thing?

Then again, Dean might have already heard about his brother. If some of the town's people knew then maybe he had heard too? And maybe not.

If Dean hadn't heard and Castiel was going to keep it a secret, he would have to persuade Dean to stay out of town centres for the rest of the journey which was going to be difficult.

Castiel sighed in an attempt to exhale the guilt that was already building in his chest, making his ribs feel tight. As much as he loathed the idea of keeping something from Dean, he had no choice.

The lock in the door clicked and the man himself entered ladled with armfuls of bags. "I got a lot more than I thought I would for that tear," he said, "so I bought you some clothes." He dropped them onto the bed. "I figured your ass might get frost bite if you walk around in a skirt for much longer." Finally he turned around and caught sight of Castiel sitting on the floor. Dean's brow rose. "Someone die?"

Castiel smiled weakly and stood up. "What did you get?"

"Check it out for yourself," said Dean, slumping into the armchair and yawning. He pulled out a greasy brown bag from a leather jacket, which Castiel suddenly realised he was wearing, and sighed. Dean pulled out a wrapped up sandwich from the bag and pealed back the paper like it was gold he was revealing layer at a time instead of food.

The pure bliss on Dean's face on the first bite would have made Castiel laugh if he wasn't saddled with so much guilt.

Dean didn't miss it. He swallowed his mouthful and frowned. "Seriously, what is it?"

Shaking his head, Castiel turned away, touching the soft material of a blue long-sleeved top sitting inside one of the bags. "I'm just tired."

"Eat something," said Dean and threw another package onto the bed.

It was a burger. Despite the melted cheese, meat and warm bread smelling wonderful, it was tough to eat since his tummy was already full of anxiety.

Dean misconstrued his lack of enthusiasm. "They don't have any palace food around here, Princess, I looked." After a moment he said, "You can take the bed, by the way, I'll sleep here."

Castiel closed his eyes. He would tell Dean in Halsayon. He was doing what was best, wasn't he? He didn't have a choice. His life hung in the balance.

It was his only option.

Wasn't it?


	5. Chapter 5

Dean studied the map he had picked up in town. By the quickest route, they had about two hundred miles left to travel. If they picked up pace it was possible to reach Halsayon in just over a week. Unfortunately, Castiel wasn't physically capable of hiking for hours at a time with few breaks. The fact that he wanted to stay away from large cities and main roads didn't help either. Dean understood why, but doing so practically doubled their ETA, and the longer they were on the road the more danger they were in.

"Are you ready yet?" said Dean.

The prince stumbled out from behind a thick hedge, too shy to change his clothes in front of Dean. He was kitted out in the hiking gear given to him the day before: suitable walking boots, pants and a t-shirt. His coat was strapped to his back along with his other things.

Dean nodded in approval. He folded up the map and stuffed it into his satchel. They were outside of town, hidden amongst the trees and sheltered from the gentle patter of rain.

He led the prince to a trail parallel to the main road which was busy for the time of day. Horses dragging carts, travellers and the occasional car puttered past. Given that they were reasonably camouflaged by greenery, there was no need to worry about being recognised. Castiel still had a habit of diving behind trees whenever they passed someone though.

On his fifth graceless leap into a mound of nettles, the prince had apparently had enough. "Why are we walking so close to the road?" he asked, dusting himself off.

"Because Black Water Ridge is hard to find if you don't follow the roads."

"Black Water Ridge? But we have enough supplies. Why do we need to stop at another town?"

"Because we're taking the train."

"What? We can't!"

Dean stopped and turned around to look at him. "Remember when I said it wasn't possible to get to Halysayon without being seen? I was being serious. There's a lake fifteen hundred meters in diameter, that's nearly a mile wide, that we need to cross. Now, if you want to swim or fly across it, and let everyone from here to Halsayon know where you are, that's up to you. But I say we be discrete, take the train, and fifteen to twenty minutes later we get off. We've cut our journey time in half."

"Can't we go around it?"

"That'll take forever."

"I don't care—"

"I do."

"Dean—"

"No."

An honest-to-god glare clouded Castiel's face. Dean almost laughed. Bless. He had pissed the princess off.

"You're forgetting that I'm employing you," Castiel reminded him.

Dean raised a brow. "Is that a threat?" He almost wished he was angry for real, and his wolf would sit up and pay attention. If he could flash his wolf eyes at Castiel, show him a bit of his animal side, he was sure the prince would back down. As it was, his wolf was purring like a kitten, only too happy to be in Castiel's presence. It was ridiculous.

Castiel notched his chin. "Yes."

Dean smirked.

"If-if you don't take me around the lake then I won't pay you," said the prince.

The smile on Dean's face only grew bigger. The kid had balls. Dean had to admit that.

Even if Castiel refused to pay him, returning a lost prince home to the king was sure to get him a small reward at the very least. And it wasn't as though he needed Castiel's money. For the life he led, there was no need to carry great quantities of it. Still, he decided to humour him. If Castiel wanted to walk around the lake then they'd walk around. It would take longer, probably add a few days to their ETA, but it wasn't like Dean had any place to be.

The uncertainty on Castiel's face, which was barely hidden by his conviction, was what finally persuaded Dean to agree. "Alright. We'll go around."

* * *

Since they were heading North the weather was growing progressively colder. It wasn't long before they were battered by a torrential rain storm. Water poured in hard, heavy drops; each one icy cold and falling close enough together to make visibility difficult even with Dean's keen eye sight. The forest they had to travel through had evenly spaced thin trees and very little else, offering no protection from the downpour.

Dean was soaked to the bone. His boots squelched, rivulets of water streamed from his hair and his clothes were plastered to his body, leaving nothing to the imagination though he doubted Castiel would mind. After the eying up he gave Dean yesterday, he could walk through the forest naked and not hear a peep from the prince.

Discovering Castiel's strong attraction to him had been surprising. Sure, he had caught him staring a few times, but the delicious smell of pure _want _coming from Castiel at the inn was nothing short of astounding. The teenager had been like a bitch in heat, and given five more minutes of scenting Castiel, Dean probably would have taken him like one too.

Although, now that he had a clear head (and with the icy cool air it was hard not to think clear), Dean knew that making any move on Castiel would be a mistake. Castiel was a prince and messing around with a title like that always had consequences. Not to mention the fact that his wolf already thought of Castiel as his mate, adding Dean's physical attraction to mix would just make things too complicated.

"Dean, wait."

Dean was ready to chew Castiel out for asking him to stop when he turned around. One look at the prince, however, had him fighting back a smile.

Like Dean, Castiel was soaking wet. He was using a tree to steady himself, foot gingerly testing the slipperiness of the muddy bank. The boots he had bought Castiel—heavy duty with good grips on the soles—were perfect for trekking through any type of terrain, swampy, muddy or otherwise.

But Castiel was still having trouble. His brows were knitted together with concentration as he clung onto a skinny sapling with both hands and tried to heave himself up the slope. The mud was too sludgy though, and he was sliding and slipping about like a terrified deer on a frozen lake.

Dean was doing everything in his power not to laugh. He had to tease him. Just a little. "C'mon, Jeez, we haven't got all day."

Castiel's head snapped up, and he scowled. "You could at least _try_ to help me."

"I am," said Dean, folding his arms and leaning against a tree. "It's called moral support."

Sticking his tongue between his teeth, Castiel stretched for the next sapling. His progress looked promising until he made the mistake of letting go of the first tree. Castiel slipped, ran on the spot in an attempt to stay upright before he flailed and landed face first in a mound of mud.

Dean burst out laughing.

Castiel's expression was a picture. Caked from head to toe in mud, he glared at Dean, which only made him laugh harder. The prince tried to get up, skidded, did a strange sort of unintentional pirouette and fell on his ass again.

Dean was bent over, clutching his stomach and crying with laughter, making absolutely no move to help. It was the funniest thing he had seen in . . . ever. He had never laughed so hard before.

"Oh, man," he chuckled, "you're not really made for hiking, are you?"

"Shut up," mumbled Castiel. He made a feeble attempt to wipe the mud from his face and hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles, and thrust out his hand. "Please help me up."

"Sure thing, your majesty." Dean leaned over, took Castiel's smaller hand in his and tugged him easily up the slope. The force of it caused Castiel to bump into his chest. Dean reached out to steady him, holding onto his waist. As he did so the teenager's body heated under his touch and again he could smell Castiel's desire: warm, sweet and tempting.

Castiel didn't meet his gaze, and Dean didn't attempt to find it.

* * *

Just as the light began to dwindle they came across a stream—a thin winding slip of water cutting through the landscape—and rocky terrain with various nooks and caves suitable for sheltering under. Dean chose the largest cave and sat down inside it, resting his arms on his raised knees.

Castiel shuffled inside and sat down too, cross legged and as far away from Dean as the walls would allow.

Dean acknowledged his distance but didn't comment.

"I'm cold," said the prince.

"As soon as the rain stops we'll collect some fire wood. There's no point looking for dry kindle in this weather."

Castiel sniffled. He detached his coat from his backpack and used it as a blanket.

The silence between them lasted longer than Dean was used to. Usually Castiel provided most of the conversation. Dean wasn't bothered. He didn't need constant, banal chatter to fill in the gaps between breaths. He just thought it was odd. Castiel was all about etiquette, and leaving a gaping silence wasn't the "proper" thing to do. For Castiel's social graces to fall into the toilet, he really must have been feeling miserable. It made Dean feel uncomfortable. He felt obliged to make Castiel happy. But that was a difficult thing to do when they were both soaking wet, tired and huddled in a cave in the middle of nowhere.

Although, now that he thought about it, Castiel had been moody since they had left the inn. No. Not moody as such; just very serious.

Had Dean offended him somehow? Probably.

It wasn't in his nature to console or ask questions that didn't fall into the "need to know" category. It wasn't in his nature to attempt to comfort anyone that wasn't family, but his wolf didn't like Castiel's depression, and Dean was quickly finding that he didn't like it either. It bothered him.

"You're quiet, Castiel," he commented.

The prince's electric blue eyes stood out against the backdrop of his dark hair and muddy face. When he met Dean's gaze it made his stomach flip.

"That's the first time you've used my name," he said.

"I used it when I met you."

"But not since then."

At a loss as what he was supposed to say, he shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Castiel hugged his knees. "I guess not," he muttered, staring at the floor. After a beat he said, "It sounds strange hearing you say my name."

"If you want me to start curtseying and calling you "your highness" then you'll have to pay me a lot more than seven hundred G-notes."

"There's no need to do that."

"Good."

A silence passed between them. It was neither comfortable nor awkward.

"I've never seen the rain pour this hard," commented Castiel.

In any other situation, Dean would have ignored it. Talking about the weather usually spelled strained conversation. There was no point in talking if the words had to be forced. Still, if it made Castiel feel better. . . "I doubt you'd see much rain sitting in a castle all day."

"I don't sit in a castle all day."

Dean moved his eyes from the downpour to the prince who was scowling. So much for cheering him up.

"Why do you do that?" asked Castiel.

Dean refrained from sighing. "Do what?"

"Act like I'm nothing more than a spoiled brat."

"I don't know. Maybe I've got a condition."

"You don't have to like me but you could at least respect me."

Dean laughed at that. "Respect you?"

The prince's jaw was tight. "Yes."

Dean didn't justify it with an answer. He let the silence linger.

"Well?" demanded Castiel.

"Well what?"

"You know what. You have to—"

"No," interjected Dean. "I don't have to do anything. One of the perks of being loner is not having to do anything I don't want to do."

Pity instantly softened Castiel's face; Dean clenched his teeth.

"If you're lonely—" started the prince.

"I'm not lonely. I never said I was."

"You said you were a loner."

"That doesn't mean I'm lonely. I don't need company to survive." Dean didn't need company but his wolf did. It was starved of companionship and most likely the reason it had latched so easily onto Castiel.

"Life shouldn't be just about surviving. You need to live."

"Thanks, but I don't need life lessons from a kid."

Dean had expected him to deny his young age. Instead Castiel simply said, "It doesn't make it any less true."

* * *

By the time the rain stopped, Castiel was asleep. Probably from exhaustion. His eyes moved restlessly under the delicate skin of his lids. His breathing was erratic and incoherent mutterings fluttered from between his lips.

For a long while, Dean watched him. He always found his gaze drifting to the prince's mouth or his hair, the smudges of dirt on his cheeks.

Despite his bedraggled appearance, there was something inherently royal about him. His shock of dark hair, blue eyes and strong jaw were an indicator. Not to mention how clearly good looking he was.

When he was absolutely certain Castiel was in a deep, impenetrable sleep, he reached out just to satisfy his curiosity, and stroked his cheek with he back of his finger.

A strong surge of desire steamrolled through him. Such a simple touch and yet it had generated so much _want. _His mind produced a very clear mental image of Castiel naked, pale skin on display, as Dean tongued his—

He squeezed his eyes shut.

With one last look at the teenager, Dean left their little cave to find dry wood. It was going to take a while, what with the heavy rain soaking everything in the vicinity.

He got lucky. Trapped under some fallen boulders were a few dry twigs and leaves, good enough for kindling. He also found an old dead tree which he kicked down and snapped it into pieces. The centre of the trunk, too thick for the rain to reach, was nice and dry and would burn well.

When he got back to the cave he found Castiel still asleep. He set up a small fire near the entrance and sat back against the wall, watching the teenager's sleeping form in the orange glow of the flames.

His wolf was restless in his mind like an insomniac tossing and turning in a futile attempt to sleep. Wolves were naturally sociable and _his _wolf was demanding he hold Castiel. It was difficult to deny his instincts when they practically ran his life.

He forced himself to stare into the fire instead. When that didn't work he closed his eyes. Shut the world out. But with the absence of the world came other memories. They crept out of the darkness—a pack of wolves in their own right-and painted themselves on the back of Dean's eyelids. Unavoidable. Painful. He didn't open his eyes to rid the thoughts. Instead he endured it. It was his fault after all. He deserved it.

"_Sammy, don't move!" shouted Dean, trying to quickly prise the knives free from his body. There was so much blood and the metal was too wet; he couldn't get a good grip._

_Sam the wolf howled. He was trying to cross the fallen tree with a broken leg. He was slipping, Dean could see. _

"_Sam, I said don't move!" _

_But he didn't listen, he carried on, and he almost looked like he was going to make it and then..._

_An inhuman snarl. Red eyes in the dark. A flash of teeth, a yelp, and..._

"_NO!"_

_His brother fell._


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel dreamed of home. Of early morning breakfasts, afternoon flights around the city with his sister, Anna, and the many wild birds that lived there. And although he usually hated them, he missed his shifter lessons. Being a Prince, he had the rare opportunity to train with the best shifters on the planet. Doing so had taught him that there was a great deal more to shifting than most people knew.

Shifting was the animal representation of a person's soul. Their traits, talents and even their faults were reproduced into the shape of another creature.

In Castiel's case, his heritage, inner strength, love and physical and emotional fragility were transformed into the entity of a kingfisher.

As for Dean, his strength, bravery, protectiveness and quick temper were combined into his wolf. But because of the trauma he had suffered in the past, his wolf—his _soul—_had become disconnected and because he had never repaired that connection, his control of his animal side was limited.

Castiel, on the other hand, had a strong bond with his kingfisher, which was not only important for his health and sanity, but useful as it opened up whole new realm of opportunities to increase the supernatural abilities born within a shifter. Because of this, Castiel was able to unlock the hidden talents his kingfisher possessed. He had been strengthening those powers since the day he could shift.

Unknown to most outside of Halsayon, Castiel was extremely powerful or, more accurately, he had the _potential_ to be powerful. There was a piece missing though, something he had never been able to fully grasp no matter how many hours he spent training, and it was something Dean had mastered.

It was conviction.

Dean had it and, unfortunately for Castiel, it was just as important as a strong connection. Dean was able to use his wolf's extra abilities such as his strength, speed and acute senses because he had conviction.

Castiel lacked conviction and he had never truly understood what that meant. That was, until he had met Dean.

Dean was a walking, talking volcano of emotion all battered down into a tiny box ready to explode at any given moment. Although he didn't show it all the time, Dean was passionate. He experienced extreme emotion, emotion that affected his soul, because he had grieved. He knew what loss was.

Uriel, Castiel's teacher, often said that the fastest road to conviction was through grief or love. Two emotions that could not be experienced lightly, and unfortunately were the keys to unlocking every strength the soul had to offer.

So, until Castiel loved or grieved or gained a few decades of experience he was stuck on the fence, powerless.

His eyes fluttered open to find the dimly lit cave empty. Even though it was morning—at least, that's what he assumed it was—he felt as though he had been asleep for days; there was barely any light at all. A dull greyish white blanketed the sky and blocked out the sun.

Castiel winced, stretched his aching limbs, rubbing the area a stone had spent the night embedded in the flesh of his elbow, and squinted about the cave.

A fire was smouldering near the entrance. Their things were still piled in the corner. Dean was nowhere in sight.

"Dean?" he called.

Stumbling outside, the forest was eerily silent. A low fog had swept in during the night hiding the majority of the dew coated grass. Thin trees took on the appearance of bars in a jail cell, their bare trunks striking against the backdrop of white mist.

"Dean...?" Castiel called again, beginning to worry. He edged further out, away from the safety of the cave. Where had his protector disappeared to? Surely he couldn't have gone far. "Dean?"

A branch snapped, and he whirled around. Castiel scanned the trees for movement. The forest returned his stare.

Hairs rose on Castiel's arms, and the back of his neck. He shuddered with the distinct feeling that someone or _something_ was watching him.

Castiel hugged himself, eyes searching the silent landscape. A voiceless breeze drifted by. "Dean?" he whispered.

It was then that he saw it: an initially shapeless silhouette drawing nearer.

As Castiel focused on it, his first instinct was to relax because it was a wolf, but then he noticed that the animal was slightly smaller, thinner, and had mottled brown fur as opposed to Dean's charcoal black.

It trotted closer and closer, pausing as soon as it was in plain sight.

It raised its head. Even from the distance it was at, Castiel could see its narrow yellow eyes.

The wolf's paws spread, claws digging into the earth, and its lips pulled back to reveal a violent array of teeth.

Castiel tensed.

The low rubble emitting from the beast's chest held a threat the prince understood only too well, and it chilled him to the bone.

From where he was standing, he figured he had two options. He could either run or fly.

If he ran, and he was caught, and he most likely _would _be caught, then he would stand a better chance of surviving a wolf attack in human form, but if he attempted to shift into his kingfisher while he still had clothes on and became tangled in the material, the wolf could snap his neck like a twig.

His heart pounded painfully against his ribcage as he deliberated. His time was evaporating. He had to make a decision soon.

On impulse, he ran.

To his surprise, the wolf didn't immediately follow.

Instead it howled long and penetrating. Its wail spread through the forest in waves, like the ocean beating against rocks. Castiel had no doubt that every wolf in a thirty mile radius had heard it and hopefully Dean had too.

He briefly considered climbing a tree but scratched that idea when he remembered how bare the trunks were.

As he darted through the skeletal trees, his kingfisher urged him to shift, pushing against his mind. Castiel beat the temptation down.

He heard a thudding which he initially thought was his own heart beat. It vibrated through the ground, up his legs. With a sickening flash of fear, he realised it was the beat of footsteps. And more than one set.

Not daring to turn around, he ran faster, as fast as he could go, heaving in stricken breaths and forcing himself not to panic. Where was Dean? He had to be nearby. He wouldn't leave Castiel unless. . .

Had he found out about Sam?

Something barrelled into the side of Castiel, knocking the breath out of his lungs and slamming him to the floor. When he landed it was then that he became aware of the teeth digging into his side and the claws burying into the top of his thigh. He could already feel warm blood oozing.

Castiel cried out, attempting to fight the beast off, tugging at its head. In retaliation the wolf snarled and clamped down on Castiel's hand, its canines pierced through his skin, grinded against bone and tugged at flesh.

He heard a blood curdling _rip, _and the answering bolt of pain forced a scream out of him.

The pain was so great he almost didn't hear the terrifying roar of another wolf over the sound of his own anguish.

The animal clawing at him dropped Castiel's hand in surprise.

Castiel frantically searched for Dean. As did his attacker, the mottled brown wolf, which paused and stepped back from Castiel, paw raised and ears twitching.

The prince snatched at the opportunity of freedom and scrambled backwards, curling in on himself to protect his injured hand.

It was difficult to see through the tears in his eyes but even with perfect vision he probably would have missed the flash of black that powered like a bullet into the brown wolf.

The pair of them rolled over, a mixture of snarls and yelps falling from the fighting wolves. The black wolf, Dean, was much larger, at least by a good thirty or forty pounds, which would have meant a quick end to the fight if the rest of the pack hadn't shown up.

There were five of them and all were the same height and build as the brown wolf.

"Dean!" cried Castiel as they charged.

The wolf's beautiful green gaze fell on Castiel for a moment before they locked onto the rushing beasts.

The pack leapt upon Dean in a rage of teeth and razor sharp claws.

Anyone else, any other creature, would have been killed in the fray, but Dean was a Winchester wolf, the tattoo on his chest said as much, and there was a reason why his family was so famous.

Dean's bloody muzzle shot towards the sky and he howled. Unlike the previous call this one was pitched lower and made the air denser with the weight of it. It resonated. It seemed to hang in the air like tinnitus.

Castiel could hardly stand the noise, the attackers even less. The pack backed off, away from Dean, forming a circle. They lowered their heads and kept their eyes fixed on the black wolf who was shimmering now with energy. There was an influx in power that was so potent it was hard to breathe.

That's when it emerged from Castiel's left. All pain in his hand was momentarily forgotten as he watched it stalk towards Dean.

It was a shadow of a wolf. A soul of a soul. The spirit of a Winchester wolf coming to Dean's aid.

The translucent beast travelled silently across the forest floor, almost gliding, until it reached Dean where it then appeared to sink into the black wolf.

Castiel gasped when Dean the wolf blinked to reveal a set of blood red eyes. There were no visible irises or whites. His gaze was now a deep liquid burgundy that sent a shiver down Castiel's spine.

The tinnitus stopped and all that was left was a breathless silence.

Castiel knew his attackers didn't stand a chance against Dean now. He was practically invulnerable. He had directly absorbed another soul of a wolf. To even attempt to take him down pack or not wasn't wise and the wolves seemed to realise it.

Two of the beasts looked to the pack leader, the brown slender alpha, for guidance. The alpha seemed to be calculating, working out if Dean was too big a threat to take down.

Castiel preyed they would leave. Otherwise it would be a bloodbath. He didn't want Dean to be the dealer of anymore deaths.

Without warning the alpha suddenly flew at Dean and the rest of the pack followed suit.

The sounds they was made were terrifying. Inhuman animal snarls and screams that Castiel was sure would haunt him for months rang out.

Dean destroyed them. He tore into the wolves in a vicious, heinous attack that could only have been described as an enraged frenzy_. _Fur and gore flew. It splattered up tree trunks in a slurry of blood, spittle and flesh. He was unstoppable.

He picked up a single wolf by its throat and tossed it into the nearest tree, collapsing three more trunks like dominoes.

One by one Dean slaughtered each wolf. Castiel watched him tear each one apart expecting to feel fear or disgust. The only emotion he could pin point behind his gushing adrenaline though was excitement.

Standing in a pool of blood, Dean pressed his paw into the throat of the alpha wolf which lay at his feet. The attacker shivered. It jerked and twisted and lengthened into the shape of a woman with dark hair. Her pale skin was littered with injuries ranging from scrapes to deep gashes.

Dean opened his mouth, displaying his impressive saliva dripping fangs.

"Do it." The woman choked out a laugh. "Do it. We have his scent now. He's dead anyway. You can't save him. The Seven are going to rip his fucking –"

Dean plucked her head from her body—blood spurted from the neck in a fountain—and threw it aside. It hit the ground with a gut-churning _thud_ and rolled away.

Castiel didn't have time to worry if the frenzied wolf was going to be a danger to him because Dean was already shivering, gradually morphing back to his human self and stretching out into the lean frame of the Dean Castiel knew. The Dean without fangs and red eyes. He was powerful and beautiful and again he had saved Castiel's life.

Despite the horror of the carnage at their feet, it still took every bit of will power Castiel possessed not to look at Dean's naked body. He had never been more attracted to Dean than he was then. And he couldn't explain why. The prince suspected it had something to do with his kingfisher and its appreciation for Dean as a protector and warrior.

"I had to do it," said Dean breaking Castiel out of his thoughts.

Dean looked down at the wolves lying lifeless at his feet. Then he met Castiel's eyes. "They would have hurt you."

Castiel nodded. He couldn't speak.

Now that the excitement was over the full force of the pain in his hand was making itself known. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

Being a shifter he was naturally a fast healer, but the damage in his hand was so severe that it was going to take some time to repair. If they were travelling, he would have to strap it up.

"Here," said Dean who was at his side in a heartbeat. "Give me your hand."

"What are you going to do?"

"I can speed up the healing process if you'll let me."

Castiel hesitated.

"I'll be gentle," promised Dean.

Relenting, the prince finally placed his palm into Dean's and watched his face.

Dean's expression darkened when he saw the extent of the damage, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he lifted Castiel's hand to his lips and _licked _the bloody wound.

Castiel opened his mouth expecting pain only to find there wasn't any. It tingled like he had pins and needles and his skin warmed. Dean's flat pink tongue continued to drag across the gash, gently just as he had promised, and as it knitted together, Castiel began to appreciate the fact that _Dean_ was _licking _him.

His tongue was warm and wet and Castiel's skin felt sensitive under the ministrations like all his nerves were too close to the surface, reacting to Dean. It curled his toes and sent warmth pooling down below.

Castiel couldn't help it; he moaned.

Dean's eyes flicked up and his tongue moved purposely slower like he wanted to make it last longer.

It was one of the best feelings Castiel had ever experienced. He turned his hand over so his palm was exposed to Dean's soft tongue and stroked his fingers along his stubble peppered jaw. Dean closed his eyes and nuzzled Castiel's wrist, inhaling deep, holding it in his lungs and exhaling slow.

"Dean," Castiel whispered.

"It should be fine now," Dean said, looking away. His voice was rough and sexy and all Castiel could think was '_more!_'

As they stood, Castiel bit his lip, sweeping his eyes over Dean's naked body and saying, without much thought, "What about my stomach?"

Turning around to look at him, Dean's eyebrows rose and Castiel's face flooded with heat.

"I—the wolf bit me. There." _It was the truth. It had._

Dean laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "C'mon, princess. Time to go."


	7. Chapter 7

At the lake's shore, nearly a mile out of Manito—a village on the periphery of River Country—Dean and Castiel were taking a break. The clouds had dispersed, it was sunny with a cool breeze, and they were waist deep in the cold lake water, on the look-out for an unsuspecting fish.

"I think it's about time you told me the truth," said Dean.

Panic instantly transformed Castiel's face. "What do you mean?"

He cocked a brow. "What do _you _think I mean?"

"Nothing," said Castiel quickly.

Dean let it slide. "I suck at this, don't I?" The fish gliding silently below the lake's liquid skin gave him a wide berth like they could sense what he was: a predator.

Castiel's lips quirked. "It takes practice." As if to prove a point, he chopped his arm through the water and snatched a red dappled fish from the depths like a karate master. He tossed it into the basket sitting on the pebbled beach.

"Nice."

Castiel gave him a pleased little smile. "Your turn."

The nearest fish to Dean was a brave soul pecking at a floating mass of weeds next to his thigh. Like Dean, his wolf zeroed in on it, tense and ready to pounce, and because of that, his senses and reactions were more acute.

In synchrony, he and his wolf surged forward and nabbed the slippery bastard from the water. Grinning, he held it up like a trophy. "Check it—Unfortunately, the fish didn't want to be Dean's trophy, because it wriggled out his grasp, slapped him in the face and dove back into the water.

Castiel snorted. "Maybe a little more practice is needed."

"A _little_?"

They caught each other's eyes—Castiel's alight with amusement.

Dean might have stared for longer than he meant to, because Castiel's smile faded, and something else began to take hold. He decided not to wait to find out what that was.

"So, who taught you to fish? Can't imagine your old man would have had the time."

"Actually, he was the first person to show me how to do it. I had teachers after that, but. . . initially it was him," he trailed off thoughtfully. "We used to be close."

"Used to be?"

Castiel didn't answer.

Although Dean normally wouldn't have continued with a subject that was obviously sensitive to Castiel, there was something that had been bugging him for awhile.

"I've been wondering," began Dean casually. "Why haven't you called your dad? Or sent him a letter? Or a telegram? You've made no move to contact him. I get that you're worried The Seven will intercept it—"

"It's not that." Castiel moved his hands back and forth underwater, sending ripples sloshing against Dean's stomach. "If my father finds out where I am then he'll send the Guard and I. . .I think at least one of them is in league with The Seven."

Dean's brows flew up. The Guard were the apex of loyalty to the royals. They took sworn oaths to protect the kingdom and the royal family. Every single member came from a background of royal guards. Generations of protectors. For even _one _person to turn against the king was inconceivable. "You know that for a fact?"

"I was captured on an outing that few people knew about," said Castiel around a sigh. "The traitor has to be in the Guard. I just don't know who."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"At first I tried to. You wouldn't listen. Then I found out who you were and . . . Your family were members of the Guard. You must have had friends . . . I didn't—"

"Trust me?"

Castiel nodded. He looked worried he had offended Dean. He'd done exactly the opposite.

"Thank god," said Dean. "I was beginning to think you had no sense of self preservation." He nudged Castiel with his elbow, and the prince smiled in response. "So, what makes a member of the Guard turn traitor?"

"What makes anyone turn into a traitor?"

"Money? Power?"

"Both," said Castiel. "The Seven have always been about money and power. The only reason anyone would work for them is to get a little power and money themselves."

"The Seven are dishing out a hundred thousand to see your head on a platter. That doesn't sound like the most economical master plan to me. You sure it isn't revenge they're after?"

"I think I'd remember angering a criminal syndicate."

"I was thinking more along the lines of using you as punishment for your dad. We need to find out the specifics of your bounty. If there are any stipulations in the contract it might give us a better idea of what The Seven are planning," said Dean.

"Asking questions about my bounty is guaranteed to draw unwanted attention."

"It'll be worth it to get some answers. We might be able to find out what gamebird they're using too."

"Gamebird?"

"Hunter's slang," said Dean. "It means scent. Usually when there's a bounty on the market it comes with two things. A contract, stating rules and how to contact the employer, and a gamebird, which is an object of some kind, belonging to the target. We've been careful. We haven't left a trail, and we haven't taken any well used roads. To find us in the woods after a heavy night of rain fall, that wolf pack must have known what they were looking for. They must have had a scent."

"Then I was right. A member of the Guard is working for The Seven. No one else has access to any of my belongings."

"I don't know. If I worked at the palace, I don't think it'd be impossible for me to get hold of something of yours."

"Then it could be anyone."

"Pretty much."

Castiel rubbed his face. He looked off into the distance, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The prince probably needed comforting or some words of reassurance. Dean only wished he knew how to give it.

He took a breath. He felt like a bastard for saying it, but it had to be said. "That's not all that worries me."

"There's more?"

"Yesterday, the alpha, the bitch I beheaded, said she had a scent."

"Did she mean the—the gamebird?"

"No. She made a point of saying she had a scent. Like it was a big deal. Gamebirds aren't. They come with nearly every bounty, which makes me think, after she bit you, she had a blood scent."

Castiel's brows drew together. "I've heard of that before."

Dean nodded. "A blood scent basically acts like a locating spell. Whoever has it can find you wherever you are in the world. They can home in on your scent like a beacon."

"But she's dead. You killed her."

"Sometimes wolves and other shifters, if they've been in a pack long enough, can share memories or thoughts. I think she passed on the blood scent to someone else before she died. Someone we didn't see."

Castiel took a fortifying breath. "If that's the case, then why haven't they attacked yet?"

"I honestly don't know."

All things considered, Castiel was taking the news well. Dean couldn't keep the dubious expression off his face though. He kept expecting the prince to suddenly shatter like glass and have to carry him to Halsayon on his back. If that did happen, Dean wouldn't blame him. The Seven weren't just a vague threat anymore. They were real. The sword swinging above Castiel's head was making itself known. Someone was seriously determined to see Castiel dead. Worst of all, they had no idea who it was, or where or when their attackers would strike.

"Hey," said Dean, touching the prince's arm. "I'm starving. Let's eat, okay?"

* * *

They ate in silence, not like he had expected much else with Castiel lost in his own thoughts. He debated trying to start a conversation to drag him out of it, but rejected the idea on the basis of looking like an idiot.

With the fish eaten and nothing left to do with his hands, he decided to clean his sword which, although it hadn't been used, had got dirty in the recent bad weather.

He unsheathed it. As he did, the metal winked in the sunlight and unintentionally caught Castiel's eye.

"That's a Halsayon blade. Where did you get it?"

"We common folk have been known to buy things from time to time."

"I wasn't implying you stole it."

Dean threw him a crooked smile. "Who says I didn't steal it?" He dug out a tiny bottle of oil from his satchel and dripped a small amount onto the blade. With a piece of cloth, he began rubbing the base, working his way up, polishing it. "You know," he drawled, "there are a disgusting amount of innuendoes that could come from this." He pretended to jack the sword off, being careful not to slice his hand open in the process.

It was worth the nick in his palm just to see Castiel blush tomato-red. He might have had a little bit of a thing for a blushing Castiel, particularly because it made the prince seem smaller and, as a result, himself bigger. Then again, maybe he just liked to show the kid up for the virgin that he clearly was. Not that Dean had been giving it much thought. Castiel obviously had limited experience in the bedroom department though. He suddenly wondered if Castiel was seeing anyone. The prince hadn't mentioned a girlfriend or boyfriend and he didn't want to ask because that would make it sound as though he was interested. And he wasn't. Not really . . .

Royal relationships tended to make the papers. He decided to check the headlines next time they were in town.

"You've changed," Castiel blurted out.

Dean looked up at Castiel then down at himself. "Pretty sure these are the same clothes I put on this morning."

"No," said the prince slowly. "You're different." Castiel crawled towards him, eyes travelling over Dean's body, but not in the sexual way he was becoming accustomed to. It was as if he could see something more than Dean's naked torso.

"Well, I. . .uh. . ." A sarcastic comment had been on the tip of his tongue. He was too distracted by how close Castiel was to actually say it though. The prince was up close and personal, kneeling in front of Dean like there was no such thing as personal space. "What're you doing?" he managed, thinking he should move away.

Castiel didn't answer. His expression was too serious.

They were in a wide open space, yet it felt as though they were secreted away somewhere, alone.

In an attempt to dispel the intimacy, Dean cleared his throat and said, "It could be because my wolf isn't being a pain in the ass. It's like we're . . ." What was the word? In tune? Synchronised? "I dunno. We're just," he snapped his fingers, "clicking." He didn't feel the constant need to shift anymore either. At least, not as much as he used to. His wolf was quiet. Calm.

"No, it's your aura."

Dean's jaw tightened. So Castiel _could _see something others couldn't. He could see auras. Dean had forgotten about that. If there was one thing he hated more than a pitying stare it was having his heart examined without his permission.

"It's lighter," said Castiel.

Dean took a deep, steadying breath through his nose. He gripped the sword in his lap in an effort to calm his annoyance.

"The darkness is still overwhelming, achingly so, but there're also speckles of green and blue and . . . _gold_."

The awe in his voice caught Dean off guard. Instead of staring across the lake, he turned his attention to Castiel, whose eyes were focused on Dean's chest with intense fascination.

He wasn't looking at Dean's skin—where goosebumps had risen on his torso—or the muscle and sinew beneath that, or the bone beneath that, or his heart beneath that. He was looking beyond, into something Dean could never see.

Whatever it was, it must have been an abyss because Castiel's gaze went on forever.

Anger was abruptly replaced with cold fear. Could Castiel see how far the darkness reached? What was down there in the depths of his soul where his wolf howled with loneliness? Was the guilt and pain as visible as Dean prayed it wasn't? Or was Dean truly as empty as he felt? If Castiel whistled, would his soul echo?

"What can you see?" he asked because he couldn't help it.

After a long pause, the prince's lips parted. "It's so deep," he murmured. "It's like the night's sky or a quasar or . . . a galaxy with billions of different intricate lights swirling in a confused mass of energy. It's_ beautiful_, I've never seen anything so . . . so. . ." He didn't finish. Apparently he couldn't.

Dean's heart was beating a mile a minute. "Cas," he said, and it came out shakier than he was prepared for.

The prince's big blue eyes focused, and lifted to Dean's face.

He wanted to say something, anything. He could hear Castiel's frantic heart, pounding just as hard as Dean's.

The air was crackling and the pressure was building between them like the energy surging beneath an active volcano moments before erupting.

They were both breathing heavily, and the prince's eyes flitting to Dean's lips was the only warning he had before Castiel grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him.


End file.
